


walden.

by thychesters



Category: Until Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, i don't know guys there's a jossam week and i wanted to be part of it ok, literally just sam and a lot of word vomit though, mostly exposition with a couple think-thoughts in there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 01:53:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7598893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thychesters/pseuds/thychesters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation, [ and go to the grave with the song still in them. ] ” — Henry David Thoreau</p>
<p>or, sam considers going back to the mountain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	walden.

**Author's Note:**

> for jossam week over on tumblr. bc i'm weak as hell and crawling back into my dumpster after six months. (jk i've always been in the dumpster) this isn't as strong as i would have liked it, but i'm also two days late with this post. this has been an idea i've wanted to explore for a while now, so it might get a re-write somewhere down the line. until then.
> 
> not proofread! as i do. 
> 
> lmao my kids i die

 

Ashley tells her not to. Or they all do, rather. The ones who know, the ones she keeps in contact with. Ashley, Chris, has spotty communication with Mike, hears of Jess’ wellbeing through him. Since their return she has perhaps exchanged three, whole, solid and concrete words with Emily. She hasn’t hear from Matt, wonders how he’s doing, when she has the capacity to worry for everyone.

Ashley tells her not to. Ashley tells her not to and she already has the receipt for her bus ticket in hand, already has an extra pair of socks packed, already has one strap to her bag hiked over her shoulder, one foot out the door and curious as to whether purchasing a return ticket was even necessary. If maybe her mother would receive a refund for a ticket that was never used to coincide with the newest missing persons report on Blackwood Mountain.

But she doesn’t think like that, doesn’t allow herself to. The more she thinks the more she dwells, and the more she dwells the more she remembers, and the more she remembers the tighter her chest is and the more it hurts. The more she remembers the more she sits with her hands over her mouth, pressed up against the headboard and hoping mom doesn’t hear.

The more she remembers the more she wishes for a presence that isn’t there, for a call that will never come. She never gets a text from the person she wants one from, but then she hardly ever gets a text to begin with.

She’d brought it up, once, back after they’d first been released, fresh bandages and gauze, looking a little more human a little less on the verge of death. Few of the others had bothered to meet her gaze, and the two who had managed to look at her were wary, tired, skeptical. It had been plain among the leftover bruises and scrapes — the fear and hesitation, underlying anger and hurt, and Sam had stood in the middle of it all, waiting for someone to say yes, okay, I’ve got your back.

She’d relented then, told them she wasn’t going to go.

Ashley had asked if she’d wanted to maybe join her for coffee, and almost immediately after had been met with a barrage of texts, some begging, some pleading, two of which Sam had replied to, and the rest she had ignored in favor of finding a seat and staring out the window. Her heart pounds, and she takes in a few unsteady breaths.

> **[ text: ash ]:** Why?  
>  **[ text: ash ]:** I mean I know what he meant to you, but I really don’t think this is a good idea.  
>  **[ text: ash ]:** Did you ask anyone else to go with you? You’re not alone, right?   
>  **[ text: ash ]:** He might not even be there, not really. Not him, at least.   
>  **[ text: ash ]:** Sam you have to know that.

The hand in her pocket tightens around her phone, vibrating against her palm before she pulls it out the silence it. The last text from Ashley flashes against the screen, and it feels like it’s mocking her.

> **[ text: ash ]:** Please come back safe.

She appreciates it, she does. Sam only hopes she doesn’t make the return trip alone, if she makes the trip at all.

She will. _They_ will.

(She hopes.)

* * *

 

Her head thuds against the window, effectively rousing her from the brief snatches of sleep she was able to get over the course of an eight hour bus ride. She presses a hand over the brief starburst of pain at her temple, and sits up feeling no more refreshed than she did before.

She squints, tries to get her bearings. Her stop is a approaching soon. Not many people joined her on the transfer.

Sam grinds her teeth, hoisting her bag up on her shoulders as she disembarks, boots squelching into the mud beneath her. The mountain has always looked so… odd without its usual snow, the lack of it and the abundance of mud and dead grass so out of place at the base of it. There are still piles here and there, but nothing like it was in February.

The gate is still busted when she approaches it, or maybe the police have ensured it won’t open, she doesn’t know and doesn’t bother to find out. Her foot slips and she nearly tumbles off the wall as she climbs it.

The mountain is bigger than she remembers it being, a sleeping giant staring down at her and waiting to swallow her whole and never spit her back out. She fiddles with the zipper to her jacket again. A short walk from the gate and sloshing through piles of dirty snow, and the cable car station greets her. Remnants of police tape flutter in the breeze at her. She wonders if the investigation has already been called off.

Her hand comes to rest at the base of her throat, at the dip in her collarbone the key resides beneath. It’s cool against her skin, and her fingers close around it.

It’s all she has left of him—not really, if she counts the numerous articles of clothing, four CDs, and first kiss she stole.

But it’s the last thing he gave her, stood with her in the bowels of the earth, lost in the mines, and handed her the key like it would take her to salvation.

She promised to come back for him, promised to get him out.

Sam keeps her promises.

(Even if he didn’t.)

* * *

 

The scenery is just as beautiful and cruel as it was the first time, and for the briefest of moments it lulls her into a false state of calm and security. The mountain is quiet, welcoming, a behemoth stretching before her, goading her its outwardly serene appearance. The waking world around her is quiet, gentle, the faintest of noises filtering out to her through the boughs and melting snow. In the spring it is a lovely sight to behold, though she does find herself longing for that snow, for the cold to bite at her cheeks and leave then reddened, which Josh will laugh at and ask why she seems to enjoy misery so much.

How fitting.

If she closes her eyes Hannah is chattering away with her brother. Beth is humming to herself. There are sounds of the forest around them, the woods shifting and breathing— _alive_.

If she closes her eyes there is so much life around her, but when she comes them she is well and truly alone.

(Is Josh?)

It would feel like any other trek up to the Washington’s lodge, had it not been for the charred wreckage that had taken its place and her knowledge of what was really out there. Sam’s hand tighter arounds her flare gun. This too, is new. There is a small collection of road flares in her bag, on top of her extra socks and sweater, just in case. The mountain air grows cool as she continues her ascent.

If she’s truly honest, Sam’s hoping to find a body. It’s the humane alternative. It makes her chest hurt less, too.

She lies to herself and says that she is prepared.

The mountain is gentle, quiet. Perhaps she, too, will venture into nature, never to return to man’s society. She will construct her cottage, far from the reaches of civilization, and live out the rest of her days in solitude, waiting for something that will never come.

Her grip shifts on the flare gun as she steadies it. Sam closes her eyes, takes a breath, and tells herself she is ready because she has to be.

“Okay, Josh,” she says, opening her eyes. “Let’s go home.”

(He is waiting.)


End file.
